The No Good Samurai Mizuko
by authorauthor123
Summary: A historical crossover piece where the Fellowship stumbles into a pseudo-Japanese fantasy world and clash with Ryoshi Mizuko, a female samurai. Will Mizuko be able to save the Fellowship's mission or will she prove to not even be a good samurai?


**Disclaimer: I don't own any LOTR property, it's just lovingly explored here. I'm not making money. I'm also lovingly exploring Japanese culture and ideas; it comes from a place of respect and curiosity. The Japanese cultures and ideas are borrowed from academic research and mixed with my own fantasy world, so don't look to this story for the 100% historically accurate truth about Japan or the Japanese. The plan is to avoid hurtful stereotypes and offensive material, so ****please give feedback ****if you feel I've written something disrespectful. I will edit or remove it. **

**All that said, there will be copious amounts of cursing, violence, and (later) romantic scenes. That's why I've gone with the M rating. Reviews and reviewers would be treasured.**

MIZUKO- CHAPTER ONE

"I won't remind you again Fujo, arms higher," Mizuko waited for the one-eyed maid's corrected stance to continue. "Begin," Mizuko braced the hay stuffed dummy. Fujo hesitantly struck the dummy with a pattern of blows. Straw flakes puffed out with every hit Fujo landed, but still Mizuko masked her disappointment. Training was anathema to the maid, after a fortnight of lessons Fujo failed to emulate the routine drilled into her day-after-day. "Stop," a panting Fujo immediately obeyed the samurai's terse instruction.

Mizuko tugged at her kimono sleeves in vexation and gestured for the maid to follow. The women took seats on the training yard's modest stone bench. Mizuko crossed her arms, ruminating on how to broach the subject of poor performance with Fujo, for the gentle creature was as fragile as porcelain of late. The one-eyed maid blotted the sweat from her brow with her sleeves, wincing when she disturbed the bandage covering her facial wounds.

Finally, Mizuko settled on an approach. The noble woman began in her usual manner, bluntly, "I would know your mind." Fujo remained mute. Mizuko nodded a sad acknowledgement. To the day no manner of cajoling, chiding, or questioning broke Fugo's silent acrimony. "Thought and action are one," Mizuko tried, "disharmony in your form betrays the content of your mind." Mizuko shifted to face her, "if you but gave voice to your mind, perhaps that would assuage your condition," her plea trailed off. A guarded eye was the only response Fujo offered, the rest of her was as carven stone. Mizuko met that single hazel orb with her own grey pair; she found in it only a raw and tired pain. Doubt flickered in and out of the samurai, was Fujo even ready for this exertion? "We will train more tomorrow," Mizuko made the effort to mitigate the surely unwelcome news with a sympathetic smile. Fujo nodded and stood. "You should wash up and lay down, Sofu will see to changing your dressings," Mizuko stood and brushed straw bits from her garb. They exchanged bows and Fujo departed towards the bathhouse. The warrior retook her seat, defeated.

Deep down Mizuko knew time was the only sure-fire remedy for the despair that permeated the lives of her humble samuriyashiki. Justice for Fujo was beyond her reach, a fact that stung with slightly less intensity than the knowledge that she was ultimately responsible for what occurred. Mizuko swallowed down the caustic rage dwelling on the price of her errors instilled. Fujo could not be allowed to succomb to despair, she had to fight. Training would enable just that, but no matter how hard she pushed, Fujo pushed back with equal force. If her mistress was Fujo's enemy, so be it. Mizuko recognized the amassing forces outside the gate. Two months was all they could afford to spend in disarray, they all had to recover.

Sofu's approaching shuffle summoned Mizuko out from her mulling. The woman straightened her posture and preempted his interruption, "the gardens need weeding."

Sofu chuckled dryly and eased himself onto the stone bench, "Sofu is blessed to serve the keenest of samurai, for Mizuko can see the garden all the way from the training yard." Sofu shifted to squint in the direction of the gardens, "Sofu's old ones see only plaster and wood."

"That's the house Sofu," Mizuko pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Sofu simply lacks the samurai training," the sage stroked his stark white beard and settle back onto the bench.

"The gardens are overrun. They are unfit," Mizuko tugged sharply at her sleeves, "We cannot hide behind our walls Sofu, it's unseemly. We must prepare for visitors."

Sofu stiffened with a sharp inhale, "this samuriyashiki has suffered enough vis-"

"We will not cower from the world," Mizuko snapped. Her hand gripped her wakizashi hilt, "we will prepare ourselves and our home to weather the world." Mizuko glared in the direction of the bathhouse. "As we have always done before," Mizuko finished.

Sofu did not reply. After a time he spoke solmenly, "the weather of the world carries an unprecedented foulness of late. Sofu will make more offerings to the kamidana."

"Do what you will, but weed the garden first," Mizuko stood.

"No," Sofu folded his arms over his belly.

Mizuko gritted her teeth, "No?"

"Fujo can do it, as she has always done before," the elder calmly stated.

Mizuko turned to face him, her cheeks bloomed. "She cannot, she," Mizuko swallowed, "lacks the capacity."

Sofu tugged on his beard, "my little Fujo is wholly capable."

Mizuko bit back a undeserved flippant remark; instead she said, "it will... strain her abilities."

Sofu eased himself to his feet before Mizuko, "Fujo practices your foreign Wing Chun from dawn to noon without complaint. Is that not more taxing than the garden Fujo's lovingly nurtured?"

Mizuko, much to her chagrin, could not bring herself to look at Sofu as she spoke, "She will not be able to pull all the weeds."

"Pull them or see them?"

Mizuko said nothing.

Sofu stroked his beard.

"She should still rest," Mizuko spoke as she surveyed the training yard.

"Indeed," Sofu nodded, "I have prepared tea for Fujo."

"Her bandages need changing as well," Mizuko looked to Sofu. Sofu bowed. Mizuko returned the bow and headed towards the mu ren zhuang posts at the other end of the training yard.

Sofu called out, "A task has slipped old Sofu's mind."

Mizuko paused in her stride, "What task is this?"

"Today is Consignment Day," Sofu's voice grew thick.

Mizuko tightened her features, the memory of Itamea's pale face and those of the others danced behind her eyelids. She took deep even breaths, "We have enough food." The bitter truth was they had six weeks of rations in the stores now.

"Sofu trusts Mizuko remembers the world outside the samuriyashiki," Sofu shuffled toward the prone samurai, "charity will come no more." Mizuko knew she could not ask Sofu or Fujo to bare the brunt of what was to come at the consignment stand; it would violate all sense of propriety to ask the neighboring towns folk to continue delivering her samuriyashiki's rations. The house of Ryoshi would be expected today, by everyone. A wave of biliousness crashed through Mizuko, but she stood firm. She couldn't afford to lose face.

"I will go," Mizuko clenched her free hand tightly. Sofu bowed deeply and left to tend to Fujo.

After washing her face and brushing her kimono free of hay, Mizuko donned her kamishimo, reset her hair into a topknot, and slipped her katana through her obi. She would not shame her house by looking beneath her station. During her preparation her nausea subsided due to the distraction of perfecting her presentation, but it swiftly struck her once more when she went to collect the ration crate from the kitchen.

There it sat, in it's usual place among the firewood and pots, impervious to the loss of it's caretaker. The symbol of her house, two koi fish swimming round, was burned into it's pale flesh. The wheelbarrow Itamea used to carry the crate to and fro had the same sigil, but it's shattered pieces lay with the firewood. Mizuko bent down and lifted the crate. It would be a handful after she collected their rations, but she believed she'd manage.

The village outside the gates bustled with the same vigor it always had. Broods of rag clothed children screamed and gave chase to each other. Vendors fended smelly beggars away from their stands. Old men drank sake in their doorways, while the women folk tended to the chores. Mizuko joined the street traffic of servants carrying empty sacks up slope of the hill, following the winding path that lead to the village shogunate's consignment stand. Mizuko could easily make out over the shabby peasant rooftops the looming structure at the top of the hill, the Shogun's palace. The consignment stand was erected in the shadow of that palace, which meant she would need to walk through the entire village to reach it.

The whispers started as soon as her own samuriyashiki walls were out of sight. Mizuko turned deaf ears to the gossiping servants and blind eyes to the drunk and vendors' open gesticulations. A samurai carrying out consignment was worthy of their quiet calumny. The hushed jibes of commoners she could withstand, it wasn't until she reached the higher samurai houses that the torment truly began.

The samurai houses of higher standing lay closer to the palace; theirs would have been among the first servants to collect consignment. Cries of the house neophytes training diligently echoed out from courtyards through open ornate wooden doors. Each samurai house proudly displayed its sigil - on uniforms, on bright happy flags, even on the structures and walls. Yet over the din of the street, news clearly reached the houses of Mizuko's march. She wondered if they set lookouts or if her form and stature were that recognizable in the crowd.

It started with the jeers of the advanced students. Gangs of them hooted and hollered, as if she were a dancing bear.

"Perhaps the fisherman samurai has taken to grocery," a rat-faced goon called out.

"Nay, it gives me hope that she's taken another profession," shouted a fat squire, "I should hope to see her fishy lips one night soon." Uproarious laughter summoned similar idiots from their gates.

"Who's to say she hasn't traded her steel away? I bet the bitch carries bamboo now," another nameless face cried.

"Someone should check, I can't see from here," the speaker feigned grasping one of her eyes in pain. Her theatricality was applauded. The cruel defamation continued on from house to house. Sometimes the insults were refined by later houses, a new house corroborating the barbs of the house across the street or down the lane. If the students drew the attention of the senior students or instructors, an angry order would send them scurrying back inside. Mizuko only focused on keeping her face blank and her eyes on the path before her.

It was an hour before she reached the palace courtyard. Her arms ached from the weight and awkward shape of the crate. The walk back would be an easier downhill, however the box would be heavier from the rations. Mizuko knew she would just have to endure, for she would rather chew dung than appear weak in front of those baying student buffons. The sun was unrelenting as she waited in line, by the time she reached the shade of the stand Mizuko felt thoroughly cooked under her many layers. She could only fervently pray that she still looked presentable.

Carefully, Mizuko placed the crate on the consignment table. "House Ryoshi," she reported to the clerk marking records onto scrolls. The shade of the stand was at least some respite.

The clerk tutted and ran his finger over a column on the scroll before him. "Ryoshi," he mused.

It was everything within her to not knock the courtly black hat off his head. Mizuko grunted, "It's three."

The clerk glared at her, "Silence, do I instruct you on how to perform your… job?"

Mizuko's spine stiffened, but she remained silent.

"Ah," the clerk's finger paused on the appropriate row, "three rations." The clerk's assistants scrambled behind him to fill the order. Three bags of rice and grain were brought out, each constructed of rough white linen and stamped with the Shogun's sigil. The assistants placed the ration bags within the crate. Mizuko, relieved she could escape back into the crowd, reached for the crate. The clerk's hand snapped out and yanked the crate back off the table, smashing it on the cobblestones.

Shock cause her to blurt out, "What is the meaning of this!"

Palace guards closed in, the blades of their yari pointing in unison at her throat. The courtyard was completely silent. Mizuko cautiously released the hilt of her katana she had grabbed out of reflex. The guards retreated in unison. The clerk cleared his throat, though his voice still quivered from the bureaucratic power he wielded, "It is the Honorable Shogun's policy that only samurai houses may receive consignments in house crates."

Mizuko drew herself to her fullest height, "I am the head of House Ryoshi, sworn blade of the Honorable Shogun."

The clerk offered a seated bow to her, "The most loyal of his samurai, I'm sure. It is my duty to point out that to qualify for house status, you must have at least five sworn persons to your house." The clerk tapped the scroll twice, "By our most recent count, you only have," he paused for effect, "three."

Mizuko bit the inside of her cheeks until she tasted copper.

The clerk crooked his finger at his first assistant, who produced an unmarked sack and set to picking the three ration bags from the ground to stuff into it. This he handed to the clerk, who in turn handed to Mizuko. Stiffly, the samurai accepted the sack and bowed. She slung the sack over her shoulder, turned on her heel, and slowly walked away. Sound returned to the courtyard as she passed; the slackjawed and gap-toothed couldn't wait to recount what they'd all just witnessed.

Numbness freed Mizuko from recalling what fresh defamation the samurai houses had for her on her return trip to her humble samuriyashiki at near the bottom of the village. Unfortunately her duty pulled her out from her mental defenses. It was tradition to hand out rice and grain to beggars who panhandled to her. Mizuko didn't ignore a single beggar, serving them out of one of the ration bags. When she arrived home, the samurai could not bring herself to close gate she'd opened only two hours prior behind her, for that would only breed more gossip. She kept her proud posture and walked confidently passed a kneeling Fujo. A newly bandaged Fujo was dedicatedly plucking weeds and correcting overgrowth in the viewing gardens. The maid didn't notice Mizuko right away, but her suddenly gasp announced clearly when she did. Mizuko made her way to the kitchen, where she found Sofu working on the cooking fire. She plopped the sack down where the old crate used to be. Mercifully Sofu made no recognition of the change or her state.

The samurai retired to her room and went through the motions of removing her kamishimo and katana properly. Dressed once more in her informal garb, Mizuko went to the only place not visible from the street through the gate, the training yard. There she stood before the mu ren zhuang posts. She stood frozen, staring blankly at the polished wood. Until the unadulterated rage within her exploded. In her mind, her blows landed not on the solid wooden pegs, but on the laughing faces in the street, the vicious and unhonorable students, the bombastic clerk, and the imagined faces of the evil men who decimated her house. Mizuko ceased her brutal strikes only when every part of her ached as much as her soul.

Fujo, Sofu, and Mizuko didn't speak during supper. Sofu cobbled together rice porridge mixed with edible herbs from the garden in his usual manner. He served Mizuko's favorite tea, even though it clashed with the meal. They ate with the doors open to take in the sunset and evening breeze. Fujo almost nodded off at the table and was sent to bed. Mizuko ate with a mechanical purpose. Sofu savored the tea. He broke the silence, "Time to close the gate."

Mizuko placed her utensils down and rose to her feet. Sofu should've been the one to close the gate and blow out the lantern, however Mizuko insisted on carrying out the chore. She kept one hand on her wakizashi hilt as she made the rounds. No beggars presented themselves at the gate for shelter, so the samurai shut the gate and slid the new wooden lock beam into place. Sofu set the dining table to rights and accompanied Mizuko to the sleeping chambers. Fujo snored softly on her sleeping mat.

Sofu smiled warmly at her, then turned to Mizuko, "Mizuko will continue to train Fujo in the morning?"

In a fit of pique Mizuko barked, "Until I see fit." Fujo's snoring ceased.

Sofu crossed his arms, "Fujo is gardener to the House of Ryoshi, not a soldier."

"She is sworn to my house, she will do and be what I say," Mizuko could no longer mask her rage.

"The honorable samurai wishes to torment the gardener," Sofu countered.

"The honorable samurai wishes to make her strong," snarled Mizuko.

"Learning to fight does not make a student strong, Mizuko," Sofu urged, "Existing as Fujo makes Fujo strong."

Mizuko scoffed, "Yes I can see that, existing clearly made Itamea, Rodo-sha, and all the oth-" Sofu struck her across the face. Mizuko stared in shock at the Sofu, before recovering, "I could have your hand for that."

"Will that make Mizuko stronger?" Sofu held out the offensive limb to her. Mizuko stared at his hand. Sofu spoke firmly, "Mizuko is not responsible for-".

The samurai interrupted, "They are dead Sofu, all dead and burnt."

Sofu continued, "Mizuko is not responsible for the evils of the world."

"I'm responsible for you," Mizuko shook her head. "For you both. I wasn't able to save the others or Fujo's eye," she pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Mizuko returned from the battlefields a day after they came," Sofu responded.

"I cannot change the past Sofu," Mizuko looked towards Fujo's form, "but I will do everything within my abilities to keep you both alive," she took a stressed breath, "even if it means losing your favor."

Sofu sighed, "Is that what Mizuko wants? To have Sofu and Fujo live forever serving a samurai who makes soldiers out of geezers and gardeners?"

Mizuko laughed hoarsely, "What I want is justice, justice against men I cannot identify before the Shogun." Mizuko gestured between Sofu and Fujo, "In lieu of justice, I will accept that you both survive and we still have a home. One day I may be able to bring honor back to our house."

Sofu nodded wearily. After a moment he spoke, "Sleep Mizuko. Sofu and Fujo will be here to look after their samurai for years to come." Sofu bowed deeply to her.

Mizuko returned the bow and retired to her room. Once the door slide shut, she collapsed on her sleeping mat. Darkness took her then and she slept deeply.

A cacophony of splintering wood, screams, and a thunder crack startled Mizuko awake. In seconds she drew her katana and tore out of her room. If those murdering brigands had returned, she would slaughter them like pigs and stick their heads on pikes. Sofu stumbled out with a terrified Fujo. Blood drained from both their faces. "Not again," whispered Sofu.

"Get to the horses," order Mizuko. Mizuko turned and ran toward the terrible racket with a familiarly cold murderous intent.

Nearing the source, the kitchen, Mizuko silently came to a halt in the shadows. Panicked male voices chattered in an unfamiliar language. Mizuko listened carefully, preparing a strategy for the impending ambush. Seven voices, no eight. Mizuko offered a quick prayer to her ancestors. She would have to strike fast and true. If she failed to kill even one of the enemies she encountered, they would surround and out flank her.

A tall blond disheveled figure wielding a bow stumbled out into the hallway. Bright green cat eyes blazed in the darkness, spotting Mizuko's crouching form. He produced an alarmed sound, but Mizuko's dagger found his shoulder before his arrow notched. Blood spurted out and he fell backward, but Mizuko sprinted past him before he hit the ground.

The destroyed kitchen housed four panicked children, a stout creature with an enormous axe, an ancient man wielding a gnarled staff, and two male warriors. The warriors rushed her; one carried a shield, the other a long sword. She met them head on. A screech of steel on steel sounded as her katana met the long sword. It's wielder bore down on her and the shield warrior circled to her right with the intent of bashing her. Mizuko took the opening to her left, utilizing her opponents' force against them. She slammed her fist into the sword-wielder's side, registering the crunch of his ribs, then rolled nimbly away with the aid of the shield bash. The strike numbed her right shoulder entirely. Mizuko kicked off a nearby fallen kitchen beam and rocketed back onto the shield-bearer. The long sword swung wildly as the man gasped for air, but he couldn't avoid his shield companion smashing back into him. Both men fell to the ground. Mizuko switched her katana from her right to her left hand. A booming voice thundered and a blinding flash of light sparked. Pain as Mizuko had never experienced struck her spine, sending her flying out of the kitchen and crashing through the hallway wall. It was the ancestors who saved her from being impaled on her own katana. Paralyzed on the hallway floor, Mizuko could only watch the elder man close in on her. Mizuko closed her eyes, she'd failed to kill the intruders. She tried to take peace from the knowledge that Fujo and Sofu had escaped. At least her death would serve that purpose.

"No," came the anguished cry from down the hallway. A warm and soft figure appeared, shielding her from the elder man. It hugged her close and smelled of herbs and dirt.

More confusion as Sofu's voice rang out, "Fujo! Mizuko!"

Mizuko's fading view was of Sofu's frail body shielding her and Fujo from the elder man. How could she have failed them twice?

* * *

><p><strong>End Chapter Notes: Did you like it, hate it, develop an unexplained and unrelated itch in your foot? Please review :)<strong>


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